


What Sweeter Music

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drabble, Drinking, Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe, Not Beta Read, Softness, not drunk, one swear word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28260072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Mulled wine. That was the ticket.After the 221B Christmas Party, a relaxed Sherlock takes one more request on his violin... and finds more than he hoped for under the mistletoe.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	What Sweeter Music

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/gifts).



_ Mulled wine. That was the ticket.  _

Sherlock felt the flush rising on the sides of his face, and cursed his genetic heritage for painting him so obviously… ehm… what was the word? Tipsy, yes. That would cover it. He wasn’t drunk, he knew, as he could still play Tchaikovsky without a hitch. But the burn of his cheeks and the inability to resist laughing at John’s ludicrous jokes all evening told a story that most definitely did not involve proper sobriety, either. 

Oh, it had been a good Christmas party, even he had to admit. Molly finally seemed to have found a boyfriend who suited her (the cat hair on his jumper was a dead giveaway), and Mrs Hudson’s canapes had gone over brilliantly. The fact that his brother and Lestrade hadn’t figured one another out yet was like a gift just for him. Next year, he feared, he would not be so lucky. They would no doubt sort themselves out by spring and he’d have to watch their… ugh… canoodling. 

John had been the real star, though, a light in his own right. Serving drinks and regaling the group with tales of their less serious cases, he was the consummate host. He’d even helped Mrs Hudson with the washing up after everyone else had gone. Sherlock hadn’t been totally useless, of course. He played to all their requests between stories and gift exchanges, and refrained from saying even one horrid thing. He was quite proud of himself, actually. 

‘Sherlock,’ John chimed, breaking him out of his self-congratulatory reverie, ‘Mrs Hudson has taken one of her soothers and is off to bed.’

‘Oh, yes, alright,’ Sherlock nodded, striding quickly across the room to lay his violin in its case.

‘Oh, n-no, I, um…’ John stammered. Sherlock hated how close to the surface the word ‘adorable’ came as he watched his flatmate’s eyes drop to the carpet. Bad Sherlock. ‘I was hoping you might… play me something. Quietly, of course.’

‘Yes, anything,’ he replied, far too quickly. Newton, help him—tonight would challenge his self-preservation. 

‘I was thinking,’ John continued, rubbing the back of his neck. He was nervous.  _ Why was he nervous?  _ He had asked Sherlock to play 43 times in the past. ‘I was thinking, maybe something… original? Perhaps that tune you play when I’m… when I’ve had a… um…’

‘A flashback?’ 

John winced at the term. Bit not good, then.

‘Trouble sleeping?’ Sherlock amended, and he must have done alright, because one side of John’s mouth drew up into a grateful smile. Without another word, half for fear that he would slip and comment on the almost purple of John’s eyes, twinkling in the fairy lights, Sherlock took up his instrument and drew the bow softly across the strings. As he coaxed out the melody he had composed to ease his ailing John, his eyelids fluttered closed. Sheet music danced before him, mingled with the frozen image of his smiling friend, where he had left him in reality moments ago. John. Beautiful, shining John. 

_ I would play for you until my fingers bled, my John. Until the notes ran out, and there was nothing left to give. Join hands and dance with the nonchalance of the free, should we feign our way around the floor. Would our balance check and would we graceless stumble, or would space be allowed us in the fray? Is a damned Job our love, swallowed whole at the start, with these, the salted edges of a dream? _

‘Wh- Sherlock?’

Sherlock opened his eyes, and realized his mouth had been moving. Oh. Oh shit.

‘Sherlock, are you… should we talk about…’ John was staring at him, mouth desperately attempting to form a coherent sentence, and eyes full of… was that… hope?  _ Now or never, Sherlock. _ If it all went wrong way up, he would blame it on the drink. 

It took a single stride to close the distance between them, and before he could back out, he squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his lips unceremoniously against John’s. John’s lips, which he found soft, and warm, and waiting. John’s lips, which were followed by John’s tongue, clever and insistent and  _ ohh yes!  _ John’s teeth, which nipped and tugged at his bottom lip as though they had never done anything else. 

It was only when strong fingers pushed between his own that Sherlock became aware he had been clenching his right hand at his side, violin and bow still clutched together painfully in his left. He pulled back slightly and John took the hint, stepping away but not releasing his hand. For the first time in history, Sherlock laid his violin on the floor, flexing his fingers before lightly stroking down the length of John’s jaw. 

‘I can’t believe it worked.’

‘What worked?’ Sherlock’s brows drew down into a smile as he searched John’s amused expression for answers. Indigo eyes flicked toward the window, and Sherlock turned to find a sprig of mistletoe nailed precariously to the wood at the top. He turned back, lowering his voice and inching his mouth toward John’s again. ‘I rather think it had more to do with the drinks.’

‘Either way,’ John shrugged, kissing him lightly. ‘Christmas miracle.’

‘I hardly think a miracle is resp-’

‘I said,’ John interrupted, squared shoulders contrasting with his beaming smile, ‘Christmas miracle.’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock hummed, finding to his own surprise that he really didn’t care. ‘Christmas miracle, then. And John? Any chance we have a bit more of that wine?’


End file.
